Dripping Like Rain
by chocobnyluv
Summary: American Revolution: a fight for freedom, but is the cost too much? Warning! Character Death
1. Chapter 1

England stood numbly, whether it was from shock and disbelief or the freezing rain he would never know. This could not be happening. This could not be bloody happening! How could he loose? It wouldn't, couldn't be allowed. There was no way he would let America go. Alfred… his darling little Alfred…

"Sorry England, but I'm gonna choose freedom." Tears flowed freely from emerald eyes, mixing with the rain. Thank Gods for the rain. Never would he allow himself to show weakness. He must be strong, invincible. "I'm not a kid anymore. I'm not your little brother, either." Those words cut straight through his heart. "As of now, I'm declaring my independence." Arthur felt something, his restraint and heart, snap inside of him. In the flash of an eye, before anyone could even blink, he charged America.

"I won't allow it!" His bayonet was caught on Alfred's musket. There was no way he could really stab him anyway. "You don't have the strength to stand on your own!" Dimly, in the back of his mind, Arthur registered Alfred's commanders giving the order to fire. Where were his own troops anyway? They most certainly weren't backing him up now, if they hadn't fled already. America stood there completely defenseless, his gun laying on the ground in the mud. Rain pelted their faces, soaking their uniforms, adding to the terrible weight England already felt on his shoulders. Tentatively he lowered his gun. The weight overcame him, Arthur sunk to his knees in defeat.

"I… I can't do it." There was just no way he could ever intentionally harm Alfred... his dear baby brother. "You bloody fool…" His musket fell to the ground, cast away as he tried to keep his emotions in, fruitlessly wiping away tears as more sprang forth to take their place. "Dammit… why… dammit…" He croaked out, words getting stuck in his throat as the tears spilled down his face, mixing with the rain. How could he do this to him? He was supposed to be the strong one, the one that he relied on, Alfred's…hero.

"England…" The younger nation gazed down in shock and disbelief at the country reduced to pieces before him. "You used to be… so big…" Now it was America that was victorious, the troops had already begun celebrating and the war was hardly over. The nations shared their moment, unbroken by anything that surrounded them until that fateful moment.

Two gunshots rang out, cutting off the cheers as the air grew heavy. England looked at the body in front of him, blood seeping out through the hole in his chest; America had been shot by one of his own men. The rain increased as if the land itself was morning the passing of it's personification. Rather stupidly England reached out, unaware of the chaos around him, to stroke the American's face.

"A-Alfred?" Suddenly he was shoved away as American soldiers picked up the still nation and grabbed around the stomach by his own men. "No!" Vainly he struggled to get loose, to break free from the arms around him. "Alfred! Alfred! Let me go, dammit let me bloody go!" His struggles increased. Roughly he was slapped in the face and hoisted onto a horse, tied to the saddle. His numb fingers picked at the knot, unsuccessfully trying to untie it until they were slapped away by a gloved hand. Defeated, he slumped in the saddle, held in place only by the ropes that bound him, and let his mind escape from his body, flying away.

* * *

><p>England lay, still in his cloths from that dreadful day, underneath the covers of his bed. Though they were muddy and stained the sheets, Arthur didn't care, for he could not see them. He was blind to the world, seeing only Alfred's brilliant blue eyes reduced to dull spheres as he lay dead in front of him. It was his fault, dammit. Everything was his fault. The tent flap opened to admit a runner.<p>

"Mr. Kirkland, sir you are wanted in the General's quarters." Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt in reply, making the soldier sigh in exasperation. "Sir, this is an order." Wearily England waved off the runner, lurching unsteadily to his feet. Neglecting to put on his coat and hat he made his way to the tent. The sky was covered by a blanket of clouds, snowflakes falling lightly, dusting the muddy ground with their purity. Like a doll England entered the tent and sat down in the padded chair, unconsciously comparing the blue to Alfred's eyes. It was strikingly similar in color, but lacked all of the flavor that Alfred would provide.

'I felt like I could just live off of them alone.' Some days, that were happening more and more often before the war, he lived for those eyes… and that smile. That brilliant grin that would light up the world. Arthur withdrew from his thoughts at the sound of his name.

"We know that you are still getting over the death of…Alfred but there is a war going on. Mourning can wait until we have won. Meanwhile we would like your opinions on these plans…" The longer he droned on the further out of it England became. It's not like he didn't want to be useful to his country but he just couldn't concentrate. Finally the meeting ended and he slipped dejectedly underneath the covers of his cot.

* * *

><p>It had been a week since that doleful day. Battles were still being waged. The Americans, though one of their leaders was dead and the other in critical condition, were winning all of the major skirmishes. Francis, though he was for the opposite side, decided to bring the Englishman some news. He snuck into the camp, locating England's tent from what he would later refer to as the 'scent of despair', and burst into the tent.<p>

"Hey Angleterre I-" France stopped in shock. England was slumped in bed, candle flickering on his desk, casting shadows around the room. The flickering light also revealed the lifeless eyes that continued staring at a rectangular item clutched in his hands, not even paying attention or recognizing the man that stood in the open doorway. A France-like stubble covered his chin. If he had seen himself like this England would have had a heart attack. However, Francis could tell that he was beyond caring. Heck, it didn't even look like there was a person left in this empty husk of a body. Tentatively France crossed the large tent to stand in front of the Briton. He was slightly amused to see that he was starring at a painting of him and America given to him by Feliciano and Ludwig a long time ago.

"Angleterre I have great news!" All he got for a reply was a non-committal grunt. What with the state that England was in, France was surprised that he had responded at all. "It's Alfred-" At the name Arthur head snapped up (Francis was surprised that he hadn't given himself whiplash).

"What the bleeding hell are you doing here, we're on opposite sides of the war, you bloody wanker. And don't you dare say his name, blooming frog. Don't you know it's bad to disrespect the dead?"

"Yeah, about that…" Obviously his 'death' had affected the man greatly. France shifted, for all of his eloquence with words he had no idea how to break the news to England. "You see he isn't really…dead."

"You've got to be joking. He got shot, dammit I saw him! It happened right in front of me! I was bloody there." Some of the fire had returned to his eyes as he glared at the Frenchman, knuckles turning pale as he clutched the picture. "Do you just get that much sick pleasure from tormenting me? This is ridiculous, how can you honestly expect me to believe you?"

"Angleterre I-"

"If this is a joke I swear, I'll castrate you and-"

"IT'S NOT A JOKE." France practically screamed at him. England was taken aback at the sudden change in his temperament. Even when they had argued France had never yelled. The blond nation sighed and pushed back his hair. "I'm not kidding, Angleterre. The soldiers managed to stop the bleeding and cart him to a medic." He shook his head ruefully "all the blood… it was terrible, but the bullet had passed through him, narrowly missing his heart and lungs*. It was quite lucky, really."

"So… he's… alive?" England's eyes sparkled with hope.

"Oui. With two weeks in bed he should be fine, though he is sleeping practically twenty four-seven. I thought that you might want to know what with you…" France trailed off. Though everyone knew that England loved the little colony, only France knew how much.

He had broken into England's house by picking the lock to prank him, but found England sleeping on the couch, a book lying open on the ground. He had thought that England had left, but apparently the country had managed to return without France noticing. Francis had toyed with the idea of drawing on the Briton's face, but decided to leave instead. However his curiosity was roused by a rather sexual moan followed by a muttered name. Tiptoeing over to the couch France watched as England flipped over on his side and was having what appeared to be a wet dream. France grinned, perhaps this could be used to his advantage, and fixed the scene in his memory. He would never forget it. This would be excellent for blackmail and the like.

"A-ah…" Arthur moaned and panted "A-Alfred!"

Francis smirked, settling down on the armchair across from the couch. The chair was quite comfortable. It was a clean white, devoid of any stains. The arms rose like butterfly wings out of the back, wood an uneven golden bronze. It would be his pleasure to 'wait out the storm' so to speak and stay until England woke up. Gazing across the room at the sleeping nation Francis smirked deviously and leaned back in the chair crossing his legs leaning back comfortably in the classic villain pose, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. Minutes later England expeditiously sat up with a groan.

"Dammit!"

"Having fun there?" England spun around with a gasp of surprise.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here frog?"

"Oh you know, the usual. I just snuck in to play a little prank is all. Then I just saw you sleeping and oh so defenseless, so I decided to stick around." France smirked. "So… you and Alfred?" England flushed, and started stuttering nervously.

"I-I don't k-know what you are t-talking about." France groaned. Honestly, how imbecilic did he think he was?

"Give up the act, England. It's not like I don't have eyes, or ears." A slight sneer spread across his face at how gullible Arthur thought he was. "Angleterre, I may act lascivious and even foolish at times, but when it comes to l'amour nothing can be hidden from me. Maintenant, dites-moi tout.**" Though the Brit didn't speak French, the way Francis leaned forward, propping his face up with his hand, and gazed at him intently made the meaning of his words all too clear. Though they weren't on the…best of terms, Arthur needed to tell someone. And though France did love his gossip, he knew that he could keep a secret.

"Well… it all started when…" England began to pour his heart out at the other nation, who didn't say a word. At first Arthur thought that he would laugh and joke around, but one glance at France changed his mind. He was surprisingly serious and seemed to take everything to heart. After Arthur finished telling him about his feelings, France gave him advice that actually made sense. England would have never thought that France could be useful for anything besides making ridiculous food and cloths and flirting, but here was France at his best. Time passed and soon the grandfather clock was striking four in the afternoon. They both had different matters to attend to, so England made sure that France left his house without destroying or changing anything (France had once come and redecorated his whole house when he was gone. Needless to say, Arthur wasn't enthused about it). Despite not completing his original objective, France left England with a wide grin and a considerably better mood.

France returned to the present, remembering the reason he had came. Arthur was looking at him quizzically, waiting for him to finish his statement.

"What with you being his guardian, and in love with him." France chuckled and winked "though I usually don't approve of incest, for you I'll make an exception."

"I am no longer his guardian. He won Francis." Arthur turned away, setting the photo down gently on his desk. "Now bugger off." France left England to his musings. At least he no longer looked and acted like a living corpse.

* * *

><p>*I looked at a diagram (that was hopefully accurate) to double check and yes, this is indeed possible. Highly unlikely, but possible.<p>

**Now, tell me everything.

Also, my knowledge of the American Revolution is… well… let's just say practically nonexistent so please forgive any mistakes. I give credit to APH and Wikipedia for any information (especially names) in this fic. This was going to be a oneshot but… I felt like making it have more than one chapter. Donno why… Sorry Frenchies is I got anything wrong. XD Though I really shouldn't and have no excuse, well, whatever. For now I'm done with this.

Disclaimer: Though it would be super special awesome if I did, I sadly do not own Axis Powers Hetalia. It belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. If Japan, China, Russia, and Canada were mine… well, crazy stuff would happen.

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	2. Chapter 2

Once again England had been called to attend a meeting. Grumbling he made his way to the tent, throwing open the flap and entering with a flourish. The people inside appeared to be surprised at his sudden change in spirits, but bloody hell. They could all go get wanked for all Arthur cared, his little America was alive! Sitting down in a chair he sat pompously, crossing his legs. It was about time he acted like the ruler of this little joint. After all, he was second only to the king himself, ranking far higher than some measly colonel or lieutenant. Not soon after everyone had assembled, the table, which was entirely covered with maps of America and decorated with pins and ink, was completely surrounded and the meeting started in a rush of voices, one overlapping the other until it was a cacophony of noise.

"But if we attack from the right flank-"

"What about the ships?"

"Surely if we go during the night-"

"If we attack there it'll definitely work!"

"-and then we would break through-"

"Wait a second, you are planning to attack Alfred's camp?" England was brought back into the conversation by the realization that this wasn't just any camp that they were ambush; it was the main headquarters, Alfred's current residence.

"Yes, and why would we not? It is where all the major generals are at. If we win this than the war's over!" England adamantly argued against the attack, but they were steadfast in their opinion. The troops were to ready themselves in the early morning light, the attack would commence before lunch, and Arthur was to fight in the thick of it. He insisted on at least fighting in the front (in the hope that he would be able to sneak Alfred out of the camp in the chaos) and reluctantly the officers put him in the forward line. Through his years of experience, it wasn't likely that he would die but all the same, they insisted on him being surrounded by a plethora of 'bodyguards' who were to always surround the Briton. Arthur agreed, if that was what he would have to do then so be it. Plus all those years accumulating knowledge also gave him plenty of ways to sneak away.

The sun had begun to rise by the time they started marching, a grim silence settling over the British troops. If they were to loose this then the war would be over, they would have lost. If they won though… the outcomes were endless. A warning shout cut through the silence, they had been spotted by the scout. Swarms of blue clad soldiers came out to join them in battle. Within minutes they were in range, and bullets cut through the air, slamming into their targets, causing men to fall like puppets whose strings were cut. Grimly they marched on, firing their guns when they had the chance, and making sure to step over, not on, the bodies of their fallen comrades. They, however, didn't exercise such care with the bodies of their enemies. Soon they were close enough to fight with bayonets and swords, England brutally sliced through flesh, flinching at the feel of cutting through skin and bones. No matter how many wars he fought in, he could never get used to the sensation. The battle raged around him, soldiers falling, cut down by their opponents, around him. His guards scattered around him. At first it was a stalemate then, slowly, ever so slowly, the British began pushing them back. Shouts of elation mixed with cries of despair; the British were winning.

Fighting increased in desperation as the American lines retreated to their last line of defense, a fortification of sandbags, pointed sticks, and barbed wire. Scratches were everywhere on Arthur's body when he finally fought through the defense, killing left and right in an attempt to reach Alfred's tent before his own soldiers made it into the camp. Abandoning his musket and bayonet, he darted with cheetah like speed through the sea of blue, a trick that he had picked up during his pirate days. He would have to be quick; his troops had already picked their way through the defenses. Remembering the formation of the camp, he sprinted to Alfred's tent, loosing patience and cutting through the flap after fumbling with the ties. Alfred was there, lying limply on his bed, neatly tucked in with care. A sharp pang cut through England's chest.

_"Wait! Would you tuck me in?" Baby blue eyes peered into emerald orbs, pleading. England froze, hand on the door, as he glanced over his shoulder. It was the first time his charge had asked for something not related to food, heroes, or England's country. _

_ "What is the magic word, love?" England's eyes softened to a moss green as he gazed at the toddler, who frowned at the question._

_ "Pwease?"_

The shots of bullets, much closer than he had expected, shocked him out of his reverie, startling him into movement.

"It's time to go Alfred." Kneeling next to the bed he managed to drag the American to a sitting position, preparing to carry him bridal style, when what remained of the tent flap burst open in a flurry of movement. It was the last, remaining member of his guard. The truth hit England faster than the speed of light, his so called guard, was actually meant to keep him from rescuing Al.

"Stop!" He panted, pointing his gun at the motionless Briton. "The Commander thought that you might attempt something like this. I can't believe that you actually made it past me but," he shrugged, shifting his gun into a more comfortable grip "I suppose you aren't England for nothing." He smirked. "Now set the boy down and step away." Reluctantly England set him down, turning to shield him with his body, and narrowing his eyes, causing the man to retreat a few steps and whistle for back up. His cocky demeanor slipped for a fraction of a second, the pure fear radiating though. The backup arrived just as England realized this, in the form of the General and Lieutenant General, defended tightly by a collection of Warrant Officers. Now that he was flanked by superior officers, he let his mask go and stepped back behind them, but seemed to hesitate before darting out of the tent.

"Step away from the boy," the General commanded, authority oozing from his every pore. This was a man who was used to his commands being obeyed at once. Unlucky for him, England had no intention of stepping aside.

"No." He growled protectively. "You can't order me to do anything. Besides the fact that I'm at least five ranks above you, I don't answer to anyone but myself and the king," Arthur smirked. "And since he's all the way back in good old England, there's nothing that you can order me to do. I can do whatever the bloody hell I want."

"Ahhh, but here's the thing," if anything his seemed to become more smug, even more so than usual. "I thought that something like this might happen so…I took the liberty of inviting the King over to see our victory." England's face paled as King George the Third stepped into the tent, bending slightly to make it through the flap without disrupting his perfectly combed hair. There he stood, surrounded by his trusty officers, in the entrance. It took him only a few seconds to understand what had occurred.

"Arthur." He nodded stiffly, not enthused at what he would have to do, even if it was for the sake of his people. Arthur grudgingly bowed, as was expected. He started to feel the first worms of doubt eating his apple, but he stood firm.

"I'm sorry about this, Arthur. I know what he means to you, but think about our people. We can't let this war continue any longer." He frowned at England's impassive face, expertly picking up the little signs of his distress: an eyebrow twitch, an unconscious little clenching of his fists, his defensive stance, and how his eyes swam with emotions. To others they would be dull, but long ago he had developed the rare skill of reading his emotions. The emotions England could hide with his body and eyes were, for the king, almost as easy as reading those ridiculous scrolls, a mess of ink but still, barely, legible.

"Step aside." He could feel the weight on his shoulders increasing as he watched England try his hardest to resist the command. A command was a command, however, and the nation was forced to move out of the way, giving them a clear shot of Alfred. Just the thought of what was to come next, and England's reaction could, and probably would have, made a lesser man cry, but for the sake of his country, he must always be strong, for he was a king. And so, no tears were shed, but regret was clear in the king's eyes. Wearily he raised his hand, and let it fall. Quickly he exited the tent before he could witness what was to happen. The thin fabric did nothing, however, to muffle the sound.

"N-no!" Three shots rang out, brining about the end of the Revolution. Numbly Arthur collapsed to his knees, tear streaming out of his emerald eyes. He shuffled to Alfred's side, clutching Alfred's arm. "A-Al-Alfred!"

"Hmph. Grow up Kirkland, there's work to be done." With a contemptuous snort, the General left the tent, the rest of the soldiers following him.

"Oh gods…" Ignoring the blood that was seeping out of the bullet holes in Alfred's head and staining the sheets, Arthur caressed America's face. "Alfred?" That face…such a calm face, not purple and blue or sickly white. There was still color trapped in those cheeks, such a healthy pink. The more rational part of his brain screamed out facts and demanded for him, the great England, to get to his feet. However, for the first time in centuries, the emotional side of Arthur won.

"Come on, wake up. I'll make your favorite hamburgers for dinner, I-I'll even let you drink as much of that disgusting stuff as you want. Alfred, love?" He caressed the bullet torn head, using his hands to try to piece back the shattered side, not caring that blood was staining his gloves a dark red. "Please?" Arthur tugged on his uniform, then let his hand drift back up to the wound, fingertips tracing the edge. "What skills you have, when did you develop this new stage paint? It's better than the ones I have." Desperately his mind, scrambled by his raging emotions, struggled to think up of an excuse. "It looks so real…" He lowered his forehead, pressing it against Alfred's. Tears dripped, partly cleaning Alfred's face from the blood splatter, as Arthur gave in to the truth. Alfred -his child, his Alfred, his _love_- was gone. Forever and irreplaceably gone. He embraced what was once a man, now only an empty husk, and wept, rocking back and forth with grief, uncaring of the blood smearing on his face, dying his hair and cloths red.

"No!" The anguished cry rang through out the camp as the blood, like the rain, continued to fall, dripping to the ground.

I don't have any knowledge of the military rankings, so I, of course, looked it up online. I must hope that it's accurate dating back to the older days, but I'm sure that it doesn't truly matter, eh? Plus, I know that their guns weren't that precise way back then, but just ignore that, please? XD

Well, I have to admit that I'm not satisfied with the ending. The ending itself is like what I wanted, but the part before that… I was having a minor writer's block during that, and I could definitely do better. Also, I just realized this, but they would probably be speaking in Old English. Oh well. Sorry for being even more historically inaccurate.

Disclaimer: No, I do not own this. Hidekaz Himaruya does though… perhaps he will let me borrow it, eh?


End file.
